


Sarcasm And A Gun

by suchfun



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Miss Congeniality AU, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Alternative Universe - FBI, FBI Agent Derek Hale, FBI Agent Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Sterek Week 2016, Sterek Week 2017
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-24 11:01:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8369737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchfun/pseuds/suchfun
Summary: "Oh hey," Derek says, turning back, "here's something, I need a list of anyone that could go undercover at the pageant. Think you're up to it?""Listmakers are the real heroes of America," Stiles says, smiling his most obnoxiously fake smile, just for Derek. He adds a double thumbs up for extra effect. "By the end of tomorrow," Derek calls over his shoulder.Stiles flips him the bird.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started this a really long time ago (June 2014 according my gdocs, sobs), and with encouragement from the wonderful [tackygoldring](http://tackygoldring.tumblr.com) I decided to post it for Sterek Week Day 1: Scene Stealer!
> 
> This is unbetaed and unfinished, but a) it thankfully stops at a point that's not entirely frustrating and b) I'm hoping to write more now that I have time. I wouldn't usually post something I haven't completed, but I just had to get this out there in the hope it would inspire me to keep going (read: force me to feel bad if I don't).
> 
> PS. This is how I imagine Stiles [pre-makeover](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/CElWPVmVAAEpVEQ.jpg) and [post-makeover](http://67.media.tumblr.com/ef34dc529fb0df2b75d5ca68bc1c809e/tumblr_n92tcpMTLy1rc44lao1_500.png). I have no preference, ngl. (Other than that I'd prefer to have both. Both is good.)

Things are not going well.

"My hands are tied, kiddo," his boss— Agent Stilinski— his _dad_ says. "I can't be seen to be giving preferential treatment."

"Why _not_?" Stiles protests. He almost whacks his dad in the face with one of his arms mid (very passionate) gesture, but if his dad doesn't know to stay out of Stiles' range of movement by now then frankly it's his own fault. 

"Well for one, everyone knows I prefer Cora—"

"Up top, Pops," Cora says, spinning in her wheely chair at the desk across from Stiles, reaching out to the Sheriff for a high five. Stiles glares and slaps her hand away.

"—and two, it wouldn't be doing you any favours in the long run. This is on your permanent record, son. You screwed up, you gotta accept the consequences."

"With grace and dignity, like always." This time it's Erica. She joins Cora, as usual, smirking around an obscenely large gum bubble. They both exist solely to torment him, he’s convinced of it.

"But the Citizen—" he tries desperately.

"Would be safer, at least, without you around," Cora says. "I know Greenberg certainly would be."

"Greenberg's a dick," Stiles mumbles.

"Greenberg is in the hospital because you shot him," his dad says sharply.

"Not on purpose!"

"In the ass." His dad's eyebrow twitches, like it always does when he's trying to hold in laughter. Traitor.

"I didn't even see him there!"

"To be fair to Babycakes, neither did I," Erica admits. "And he was standing right next to me. I think."

Stiles gestures at Erica, opening his mouth to make an extremely convincing and salient point he's sure, but his dad just clears his throat and crosses his arms. Stiles slumps over dejectedly, because there's no way he's going to win this one.

Fucking Greenberg.

—

Stiles is actually a really great FBI agent. Stellar. Exemplary, even. Some minor problems with authority aside (whatever, Harris is even more of a dick than Greenberg), he's an asset to any team. He's diligent, tenacious, reliable and thorough—all attributes that Stiles plans to point out to Derek Hale, because Derek Hale, despite usually seeming more interested in grumping and coasting than actually advancing his career or even stopping bad guys, has just been assigned point in his first op. The Citizen op. The op Stiles has been obsessing over for weeks, and the op Stiles is now banned from.

Derek Hale is not impressed. "Agent Stilinski already spoke to me, Stiles," he calls as Stiles approaches, before Stiles can even get a word out.

" _I'm_ Agent Stilinski," Stiles mutters, and if anyone should understand his pain, it's Derek. There's nothing more confusing than having two Agent Stilinskis _and_ two Agent Hales on the same team.

He drops his duffel bag on a bench and joins Derek on the running track properly, settling into a rhythm next to him. They've done this before, sometimes before work, sometimes on a lunch break, always when one of them really needs to get away for a while. They're not friends, exactly—Derek's his senior and a bit of an asshole, and he doesn't really seem to indulge in mundane trivialities like 'human interaction'—but the running track is so close to their building, and they work with idiots, and sometimes their frustration can only be relieved through exercise. It's just a thing they do. 

No biggie.

Derek speeds up a little, but Stiles easily keeps pace and it annoys Derek, just like always. They run a few laps in silence and Stiles uses the time to attempt to come up with some good arguments, because it’s obvious Derek’s going to say—

"I can't do it," Derek says. Stiles grits his teeth. "You're out of the field, Stiles. Maybe after your hearing with the review board—"

"That's in two weeks, the Citizen could've killed again by then!"

"So what, you think you're the only one who could stop him?" They've circled back around to where Derek left his jacket and water bottle by now, and they slow to a stop. Derek's hands drift to his hips as he breathes and raises an eyebrow at Stiles. Stiles really hates how he always manages to look so composed.

"I know I'm the best shot we have," he says, and then immediately regrets his wording. "I mean—"

"I know what you mean." Derek tilts his head back, sucking at his water bottle and wiping his mouth before smirking at Stiles. "You mean we should all probably invest in bulletproof underwear."

"I wouldn't aim for your ass, I like it too much," Stiles snaps. "I'd do you the honour of aiming for something much less attractive, like your face."

"I appreciate your professionalism," Derek says dryly. "Look, I know this is frustrating. Just bury yourself in paperwork, ride it out." He slips on his jacket and starts back for the office. "Oh hey," he says, turning back, "here's something, I need a list of anyone that could go undercover at the pageant. Think you're up to it?"

"Listmakers are the real heroes of America," Stiles says, smiling his most obnoxiously fake smile, just for Derek. He adds a double thumbs up for extra effect. 

"By the end of tomorrow," Derek calls over his shoulder.

Stiles flips him the bird.

—

The Mister United States Pageant is a relatively new competition. It's only in its fourth year, and it's got a fraction of the funding and popularity that the pageants for the ladies have, but it's the target the Citizen's latest riddle revealed and so that is where Stiles' research takes him.

He spends a few hours that afternoon poring over case notes. Not the Citizen notes, he pretty much knows everything there is to know about the Citizen—compiled a lot of the information himself—but he never knew the swimsuit preliminary at the pageant counted for fifteen percent of the contestants’ final scores. It’s fascinating, in a kind of grotesque, pathetic way, and the next morning he’s actually really into the idea of trawling through the FBI personnel files.

He's even planned a little extra something-something to help speed things along. To be honest, he's worked with most of these people for years, and he finds it impossible to imagine what they look like outside of work clothes, ie. ill-fitting suits. So maybe he delves a little deeper into the personnel files than he was supposed to. And possibly he borrows the files featuring the scans of the 3D profiles that every member of the FBI has at the beginning of the year for security purposes. And probably he messes with some code and uploads some of his own files and manages to find a way to have a little fun, ie. import a bunch of different CGI 'outfits' and play with his colleagues like Barbies.

It's important work.

He starts with Matt Daehler.

As soon as the 360 degree CGI rendering of Matt's body appears, Stiles is reminded of why he hates him. He's only worked with him on a couple of ops, but he spent the entire time feeling very uneasy. 

He’s just forced himself to click through to the swimsuit option (oh god why, at any other time he wouldn't complain _too_ hard about the pageant's objectification-heavy judging criteria, but _oh god why_ ) when he hears a wolf-whistle from behind him.

"Damn, Stilinski," Erica says, eyes glued to the screen. She perches on his desk, her hand drifting slowly towards his computer. "Porn at work, that’s pretty brazen."

Cora snorts. "Could’ve picked better subject matter, though. How did I know you’d be into twink-on-twink."

"Excuse me," Stiles says, snatching the mouse back from Erica, "I’m _working_. And why have you even put thought into my sexual preferences, I feel violated."

"You wish," Erica mutters.

"I’ve put thought into everyone’s preferences," Cora tells him, looking at him like he’s the crazy one. "I’m a _spy_ , Stiles."

"Hey, can I see the tux?" Erica reaches out for the mouse again, pouting when Stiles refuses. "I’ll tell on you to Derek."

"I’m _working_!" Off her dubious look he adds, "I’m looking for male agents under thirty to go undercover at the Mister America Pageant."

"And _he's_ your first choice?" Cora wrinkles her nose, leaning in to scan Matt's file.

"He's one of many. There's the others." Stiles gestures to the printout of the huge list, trying not to glare at it too much. He turns back to Cora. "I know why I don't like him, why don't you like him? I don't think Derek will accept 'creepy vibe' as a legit argument."

She grunts noncommittally.

Helpful.

Erica finally gets hold of the mouse and starts clicking through tabs, cycling between swimwear, evening wear and the superhero costumes Stiles added just for kicks. "He's not bad. A little slimy-looking, I agree, kind of weaselly. He's got great eyes though, and a decent ass."

Stiles pulls a face, leaning in. 'Decent' is being way too kind. Stiles didn't even know Erica was capable of being so kind.

"Uhhhh you got a little problem," Cora says. She points to a section of text in Matt's file, and Stiles grins victoriously when he sees STATUS: ON LEAVE DUE TO DIVING ACCIDENT.

"What a shame!" he says gleefully, grabbing a pen and crossing his name out with a flourish. "We shall never recover from this tragedy!"

"Pity." Erica rotates CGI Matt one last time, lingering on his ass, before turning to Stiles and pulling the portfolio into her lap. "Who else do you have?"

Which prompts over two hours of trawling through the personnel files of potential agents, all of whom are vetoed for some reason. At one point Stiles needs a break and leaves to get a coffee, only to come back to hysterical laughter and a rendering of Agent Harris in a tiny Speedo.

"Oh my God!" Stiles dives for the computer, but he knows that it won't matter how quickly he erases it. That image is going to haunt his dreams for a long time to come.

"Ooh, I've got a good one," Erica says, rubbing her hands together, and before Stiles knows it a picture of his dad, mercifully in boardshorts, appears.

"Ew gross Erica, he's like my dad," Cora complains, wrinkling her nose. Stiles lets out an indignant noise because _how does she think he feels_ , but apparently he's ceased to exist because neither of them pay him any attention, instead cycling through the clothing options and landing on formal wear. Cora raises what looks like an _impressed eyebrow_. "Okay, yeah, but he does look excellent in a tux, I'm not gonna lie."

Stiles groans. "I'm incredibly uncomfortable right now."

"Aw, jealous your old man looks better than you do?" Erica coos, although she still hasn't taken her eyes off his dad, now in a Batman costume. (Stiles was very thorough with his outfit options. It's something he takes great pride in.)

"Oh now that's an idea," Cora says. She turns to him, eyeing him up and down, and if Stiles thought he was uncomfortable before it's got nothing on now. She looks at Erica, who grins back. Erica's blood-red nail hovers over the 'S' on the keyboard, and that's when Stiles finally realises what's about to happen.

It's just too bad for him that he has never once beaten Cora in hand-to-hand combat. She easily holds him off while Erica does her thing and when Cora finally lets him out of the headlock there's his pale, unique specimen of a body up on the screen. Stiles cringes, waiting for the backlash…

But it never comes.

"Not bad Stilinski," Cora says.

He squints open one eye. "Huh?"

" _Great_ shoulders," Erica agrees. "Cute happy trail, decent thighs, and the decider—" She spins CGI Stiles, mercifully not in a Speedo but still in some short boardshorts, and lets out an impressed-sounding breath. "Yeah I've decided, it's you."

"Wait." Cora leans in closer to the real, human him, getting way too close and wrapping a hand around his bicep, squeezing it. She nods. "You got my blessing."

"Okay guys as flattering as that is— _I think?_ —I cannot do this. I'm suspended, remember? Also, I'm _me_ ," he points out, because he's not sure how they could have forgotten. "Stiles. Stiles is not a beauty queen. There has to be someone else, because Stiles does not do graceful and poised and glamorous, Stiles does hyperactive and flailing and unkempt. Which, for the record, Stiles sees absolutely no problem with, thanks very much."

Cora rolls her eyes, but her expression is much softer than before, which is all kinds of scary.

Stiles gulps.

"Stiles," she says sternly, "you know there's no-one else."

"Help us, Stiles Stilinski," Erica adds. "You're our only hope."

Stiles glares at her. She's playing _so_ dirty right now. "Low blow, Reyes."

She grins. "Gotta work with what you got."

—

After managing to successfully avoid Derek all day, Stiles is finally caught by him at their local bar after work. He's halfway through a beer, halfheartedly watching the game of basketball on the screen above the bar when he feels someone drop down onto the stool next to him. He doesn't even have to look up to know that it's Derek. He always knows when Derek's around, it's like a sixth sense.

Also, Derek wears way too much cologne and you can pretty much smell him from a mile away.

In an unsurprising twist, Derek is quiet for a long time, just sipping on his beer and breathing next to him. He seems to be waiting for Stiles to make the first move, but Stiles is employing _all_ of his admittedly limited restraint. If Derek wants a conversation about this, he can be the one to start it.

Eventually, Derek drains his glass and clears his throat. "My sister says you—"

"No freakin' way."

"Stiles—"

"Are you honestly serious about this? Me, in a _beauty contest_. _Me_." He waves his arms around, gesturing to the general complete Stiles-package. He's not the ugliest bro in the toolbox, but he's hardly the ideal candidate for a competition where the standard is bronzed, buff babes. He'd thought that was obvious to pretty much everyone.

"I hear they're called scholarship programs now," Derek comments.

"Why don't you just do it then?" Stiles shoots back. "Other the fact that you look, like, forty five, you'd fit right in."

Derek's response is immediate. "Absolutely not."

"Why not?"

"First, imagine me in the interview segment—which I saw in your report makes up thirty percent of the final score." Derek raises both eyebrows and Stiles cringes. Yeah, that… would probably be unwise. "Second, I'm in charge and your dad already approved you for this. You're going undercover whether you like it or not."

Shit. If his dad already agreed, that's it. Stiles is _doomed_. "Oh my god, he's totally punishing me, isn't he."

"Stiles, believe it or not, I had to talk him into this. He's still beyond pissed about Greenberg."

Stiles remains unconvinced. "Talk, really? You?"

Derek's mouth twitches and he quickly looks down at the bar top. "My eyebrows can be very beseeching."

Stiles snorts. "So, okay. Say I do this. _How_ exactly am I supposed to do it? I have no idea what I'm doing! And neither do you!"

"That's why we're getting help." Derek levers himself up from the stool, offering a hand to Stiles.

Stiles hesitates, but he takes Derek's hand, and lets Derek help him up. 

—

Ms Lydia Martin is the pinnacle of ethereal strawberry blonde beauty. She's stunning, ravishing and disdainful and glamorous and just generally _exceptional_ , perched in her seat at the prime table of this ridiculously extravagant restaurant like it's her throne. She also takes one look at Stiles and calls for the cheque.

Stiles is half in love with her immediately. 

"Ms Martin," Derek says, hushed and urgent, leaning over the table but careful not to intrude on her personal space, like he always does with people he respects. Stiles would complain that Derek never does that with him, but that would be a lie, because Derek touching him is one of his favourite things, so. "Please reconsider," he pleads. "This is a matter of utmost importance."

Stiles rolls his eyes. Derek also tends to slip into the most melodramatic phrasing when he's under pressure and/or feeling stressed. "Seriously, dude—" he starts, but Ms Martin's glare cuts him off immediately.

"Agent Hale," she says, her voice politely quiet, but at the same time super frosty, like _beyond_ biting, "you are Agent Stilinski's superior, are you not?"

Derek looks caught. "Yes…" He very carefully keeps his gaze on Ms Martin but never looks directly into her eyes, like she's some sort of vicious wild animal.

Stiles tries not to find this as hilarious as he does, but it's a bit impossible considering he's seen Derek face several of the deadliest members of the Russian mafia looking much less worried than this.

But then Lydia turns her icy gaze on Stiles, and suddenly nothing has ever been less funny. He tamps down on the urge to shiver. "Then you, Mr Stilinski," she continues, "should most definitely be referring to Mr Hale as 'sir', should you not?"

Stiles shifts in his seat. "Yeah, but—"

"Yes," she says sharply.

"Yeah," he agrees, not entirely sure what he's agreeing to exactly. He feels like it's a matter of self-preservation at this point.

"No, it's _yes_."

"Uh…" Stiles chances a glance at Derek, who's looking just as confused as Stiles feels. "Um…"

Ms Martin sighs. "When addressing another person in polite company, particularly someone who is of a higher ranking than you, it is always 'yes', not 'yeah'."

Stiles swallows. He can't even blame Derek for practically running away less than thirty seconds later with a totally bogus excuse, leaving him to face Ms Martin's wrath alone.

—

"There's no way you're going to be ready in two days," Ms Martin says bluntly.

Stiles snorts, before he remembers that that's probably against the rules. He sits up in his seat and tries to remember what his dad used to whisper to him when he was a kid, in the few minutes it would take Grandpa Stilinski to get from the car outside and into the house, where little five-year-old Stiles would be awkwardly waiting—back straight, direct eye contact, firm handshake, voice assured, no elbows on the table.

"Look," he says, and his voice cracks. He's suddenly really nervous about this. Maybe it's finally sunk in that this is probably his last chance with the Bureau. If he screws up again, he'll be doing paperwork for the rest of eternity, Stilinski name or not. He tries again. "Listen, Ms Martin. I'm not trying to belittle what you do, I'm sure you're an awesome… uh…" Shit, what exactly _does_ she do? Derek never got that far, Stiles was too busy whining and Derek was too busy rolling his eyes.

"Pageant consultant," she supplies, after letting him flounder for much longer than necessary. Just as well Stiles is very familiar with, and greatly admires, the superior air she's giving off.

"Yeah— I mean, yes, that. And I understand we're expecting some kinda miracle. But this could literally mean life or death. If we had any other option, I _promise_ you we wouldn't be here right now begging for your help."

Ms Martin taps one perfect, shiny pink fingernail against the thick tablecloth. "Begging," she says eventually.

Stiles somehow manages to hold in his triumphant grin. Fuck yeah, crisis number 7834 averted, point to Stiles Stilinski, no points at all for Derek Hale, who retreated like a coward. "I could you know. I could get on my knees, or swing from that super ugly chandelier, if you prefer. Serenade you. Kiss your feet?"

"That chandelier took a Murano artisan three months to create by hand and is worth fifty thousand dollars," she says. But her expression softens a little bit. "And I'm wearing peep-toes today, so you had better not."

Stiles has no idea what any of that means. 

Ms Martin can obviously tell. She sighs.

They talk a little more, mostly about Stiles' ineptitude (how he talks, walks, stands, sits, eats and breathes are all problematic, apparently) and Stiles can't help but think he must have a serious problem, because the more time he spends with Lydia (yeah, he has permission to use her first name now, another point for Stiles), the more he likes her. Why does he always do this himself? How does he attract so many obnoxious evil people? Some people (Derek, his dad, Derek, every teacher or superior he's ever had, Derek) might blame it on his _own_ unique blend of obnoxiousness and masochism, but Stiles doesn't feel comfortable with diagnosing the issue just yet.

"So what's the verdict, doc? Can you fix me?" Stiles asks finally.

Lydia sniffs. She glances down at the neat list she's been keeping of all the work they'd have to do. She flips idly through the _four pages_ , tapping her fountain pen on the table. "I can try," she decides eventually. "Since it's for such a good cause."

Stiles grins. "God bless America."

—

"So how did we manage to clear this with the pageant peeps, anyway?" Stiles asks Derek. They're sitting opposite one another on an FBI-sourced private jet, heading directly for Texas, where the pageant is being held. Cora and Erica are talking quietly few seats down, while Lydia is getting her beauty sleep at the other end of the plane. Stiles won't be getting _any_ sleep for the next few nights, and neither will Derek—while Stiles has been watching coverage of previous Mister United States pageants for hours (which totally hasn't decimated his already waning confidence, no siree, he's completely fine with how obviously he is _not_ ready to spend so many hours with these dudes, let alone _compete_ with them), Derek has been reviewing pile after pile of paperwork, reorganising and highlighting and rereading things over and over. Stiles is admittedly relieved to see that a) Derek definitely has his back and b) he isn't the only one freaking out about this mission, but his eyes are hurting and Derek keeps yawning every ten seconds and it's very obvious that they both need a break.

Derek blinks, rousing himself out of his stupor. Stiles offers him his bag of Reese's Pieces, which he eyes warily before taking a handful and popping one daintily in his mouth. "What do you mean?" he asks tiredly.

"Like, for real, what about the dude whose spot I'm taking, the real New Jersey contestant? What happened to him?"

Derek grimaces. "You sure you wanna know?"

"Oh my God!" Stiles nigh on shrieks. Erica looks over with a raised eyebrow, so he leans in and lowers his voice. "Did the Bureau… _take him out_?"

"Stiles."

"Like, for real? We…" He draws his finger slowly across his throat, bugging his eyes out and poking out his tongue in what is probably the most attractively-mimed assassination Derek has ever seen.

Or not, because Derek grabs his wrists and pulls them down, _hard_ , intention to hurt and/or maim one hundred fucking percent present, damn.

"Ah-ahh- _ow_!" Stiles whines, wrenching back, shaking his arms out. "What was that?"

"We didn't _kill_ him Stiles, god." He sifts through one of his files and passes a printout to Stiles. "We didn't have to."

Stiles blinks at the page, turning it upside down before realising—

"Oh my _god_!" He squints at it, turns it around again. "Is that his—"

"His twin, yes. And that's just part of the free content on the website."

It's almost gross enough to render Stiles speechless, to let his scrunched up grossed out face do the talking for him. Almost. "It definitely gives a whole new meaning to the term 'brofist'," he gets out, shivering in horror.

Derek snorts and gently prises Stiles' hands off the photo. "Now you understand why no-one really objected."

"I do." He sits back in his seat, considering. "Well, I _have_ to be better than twincest guy, surely. I don't have a creepy doppelganger _and_ I've never done porn. And I guess I _do_ have a certain appeal with those who enjoy entertaining nights spent lounging by a hearty fire, sipping on a glass of milk and discussing the biblical themes inherent in Mass Effect 3."

"Sounds just like the pageant's target audience," Derek says.

Stiles dumps the rest of his Reese's Pieces down Derek's shirt and goes directly back to his laptop, turning up the volume and pretending he can't hear Derek cursing, or see Derek's ridiculous chest as he shakes out his shirt.

—

They land. Stiles isn't really paying attention to where they're going, too busy responding to a text from his dad, so he lets himself be corralled by Derek and Lydia.

It's a mistake.

By the time he realises it's a trap it's too late, the door to the aeroplane hangar is being heaved shut with an ominous clunk, and Derek, Erica and Cora have completely surrounded him.

Stiles gulps. "What's—"

And then he spots a group of people hovering nearby, watching him expectantly, brandishing all sorts of like… scissors and tweezers and brushes and oh god he knows what this is now, abort mission, how the fuck did he become the Admiral Ackbar in this scenario?! "Woah woah woah, no one said anything about a makeover montage!"

"Oh Stiles," Lydia says, examining her nails boredly from a few feet away. She's standing next to a recliner that kind of looks like a dentist's chair, padded and high-backed and a lot more scary in this context than it ever was in Doctor Choi's office. "Whatever made you think you _wouldn't_ need one?"

"Derek!" He turns to face him, but Derek doesn't even look the slightest bit sympathetic. He kind of actually mostly looks… smug, that _bastard_. "Save me! Dark times are upon us!"

Derek shrugs. "This is for your own good."

And then Cora and Erica are dragging him to the chair, strapping him down, and all he can do is endure the longest four hours of his life.

—

It is Stiles' most fervent wish that he can one day forget the horrors he endures in that hangar. Perhaps one day, he'll be able to look at another plane and not experience intense flashbacks, but that day is far off in the future.

He's in the bathroom, whimpering to himself, carefully rubbing ointment over his—now hairless—chest when there's a knock on the door. Stiles yelps and yanks his robe tighter around himself, smearing the ointment everywhere. "Occupied!" he yells hoarsely.

"I know that, idiot, that's why I knocked," comes Derek's voice. "Can I come in? I need to give you your gear."

Stiles glances at himself in the mirror. As well as the robe, his face is grey and stiff because of some kind of clay face mask, and he's got a bright yellow shower cap over his hair as it does… something, he wasn't exactly listening the hair dude. He was too distracted by the distant sound of a thousand screams, released all at once by the hair follicles on his upper thighs and groin as they were wrenched away from his body, the body that has been their only home for the past twenty seven years.

Yeah. They even went there. _All_ the way up there.

He shivers again. There's probably no point in putting Derek off. "Sure," he mutters. Why not add to his humiliation.

He unlocks the door and Derek slips in, looking perfect, of course, in his imperfections—the dark circles under his eyes, crumpled shirt and rumpled hair look good on him. Distinguished and accomplished. Ugh.

Stiles hates him. Especially since, upon seeing Stiles, the first thing he does is let out a bark of laughter which he turns gracelessly into a cough. He clears his throat, leaning against the sink. "Interesting new look."

"And it's probably still more attractive than most of my competition," Stiles says. He does a mock curtsey, and on the way up he can feel the robe gaping at his collar so he hurries to tug it closed and pull the belt tighter.

Derek's gaze dips down only for a second before he seems to remember why he's here, brandishing a small armoured suitcase. "Your gear," he explains, sliding the suitcase onto the bench and thumbing it open. "Earpiece, pin camera, phone, smart watch. They're all synced and networked with our equipment."

Stiles nods. The equipment is familiar, he's used it all before, but he gives it a cursory once-over before reaching for his new ID papers tucked into the lid. He opens them up and— "Miles Bilinski? _Really_?"

Derek shrugs, his poker face impeccable. "It has a nice ring to it, right?"

Stiles glares at him. "I think all this power has gone to your head."

"That's where it's supposed to be," Derek says calmly.

Stiles rolls his eyes. There's a pause. Stiles taps his fingers against the side of the suitcase. "Soooo… is that it?"

Derek jolts, glancing up from… wherever, nodding and stepping back. "Yeah, yeah. That's… make sure you familiarise yourself with everything, we're due at the pageant at 0800." He tilts his head, stops with his hand on the door handle. "You can do this, right?"

"Dude," Stiles says. He gestures to his person, to his freakishly hairless body and shiny toenails and shower-capped hair. "I mean…"

"Yeah," Derek says, smirking. "Okay."

—

Stiles can admit, his weird patchy beard was probably getting a bit much. The thing is, he's had it for so long now that he's kind of fond of it, and also shaving is the bane of his existence. Derek hates it too, he knows, and that's why he's never said anything about it, but Stiles can tell he only barely tolerates Stiles' beard—maybe because while Derek's stubble looks artful and statuesque, Stiles' just makes him look grubby and homeless.

It doesn't matter now. Nothing matters as Stiles is forced to watch mournfully as his face is slowly removed of hair, the barber on staff shaving him with an actual straight razor (and Stiles wonders why any civilian is allowed to have a razor that close to an FBI agent's jugular). He doesn't have any time to recover from the trauma before he's shoved into another chair, where his hair is cut and styled, his eyebrows trimmed and eyelashes combed. _Then_ he's guided over to a rack of suits. Lydia's standing by them, thoughtfully pulling them out then hanging them back up after some kind of assessment on her part.

Stiles has no idea what she's looking for. They literally all look the same.

"So…" he says awkwardly.

Lydia finally turns to him. And then, astonishingly, somehow, the corners of her mouth tilt up into a pleased little smile. "God, I'm good," she murmurs.

Stiles is stunned. "I am stunned," he says. "Was that a compliment?"

"I was complimenting myself," she says distractedly, then turns to the rack behind her and grabs a pair of black slacks and a crisp white shirt. "Put these on. Tuck in the shirt. Wear these too." She adds a pair of shiny brown shoes to the pile in his arms.

"Uh…" Stiles glances pointedly around the hangar, where there are still at least a dozen people milling around.

Lydia sighs. "Stiles. A team of five just waxed your ass. You can get changed where you are."

Well. She has a point. As quickly as he can, Stiles slips out of the robe and drapes it over the end of the nearest clothes rack, reaching for the shirt first. It covers enough of his body for him to relax, and he carefully does up the buttons. He goes to do up the cuffs too but Lydia shakes her head.

"Roll them up. Neatly," she adds quickly.

Stiles folds each sleeve over three times, ending at his elbow, before pulling on the pants. He's just doing up the fly when Derek appears from behind Lydia, concentrating on a printout.

"Oh, Derek!" she calls, despite Stiles' very obvious hand gestures indicating to her that he would very much like this to _not_ be happening. "We're almost done. What do you think?"

"I think I—" He glances up. He double takes. He stops short. "I just…" He steps closer, falteringly. "Moles!" he blurts.

"What?" Stiles asks, hand self-consciously rising to his face.

"You have them," Derek says inanely. "Lots of them."

Stiles sighs, despite the blotchy ruddiness he can already feel forming on his cheeks. "I know dude, but I can't really—"

"No, I'm not— it's… they're…"

"'Charming', is I think the word Derek's looking for," says Lydia smoothly.

Stiles snorts. "Yeah, sure." He turns back to Derek, who's still kind of staring. "Dude, you okay?"

"Yeah I'm… it's fine," Derek says jerkily, taking rapid steps backwards. "I'm fine, get back to work. We've wasted enough time already."

Stiles rolls his eyes, snapping an obnoxious salute at him, but Derek just frowns and whirls around, stalking to the other side of the hangar. "Loser," Stiles mutters, not at all fondly.

"So," Lydia says, sounding disinterested in a way that makes it clear she's actually very interested. "Is that the first time Derek's seen you looking presentable?"

Stiles shrugs. "I mean, I guess? He transferred to our branch like just over a year ago and I've probably had the beard since before then, so yeah, probably."

"Hmm," Lydia says, staring after Derek. Then she straightens suddenly, eyes snapping back to Stiles, evaluating. "Put on the shoes and meet me outside in five minutes. We have a plane to catch."

"Cool, yeah— yes," Stiles says, watching her stride away. 

He takes a deep breath.

No turning back now.

—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also if anyone has any ideas about a good talent/s for Stiles, that would be swell! Pls share with me any ideas! I have a bunch of vague options but nothing seems to fit :(


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been over a year since chapter one, and I just... I guess I really wanna thank everyone who commented. I'm exceptionally bad at responding to individual comments, but you guys are the only reason this chapter is here so I just... _thank you_. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this part too!
> 
> [Corresponding tumblr post!](http://fishcommander.tumblr.com/post/166834605146/sarcasm-and-a-gun-chapter-two-sterek-fic)

The problem with coming into the competition at the last minute and being expected to both keep a low profile _and_ infiltrate the group of contestants is that he's never been more awkward and ill-equipped in his life. The other Mister United States contestants already seem familiar with each other, probably from previous heats or other competitions, and their camaraderie leaves Stiles feeling super conspicuous and excluded, not to mention _way_ too unpretty to be here. 

It's just like his senior prom all over again.

It even sort of looks like it could be prom—the contestants are staying in this fancy hotel for the duration of the competition, and the organisers are using one of the many function rooms to host a pre-pageant brunch. It's… not great. The room is bursting with ugly decorations, the contestants are sullenly loitering around the edges of the space, there's bad 90s music playing the background, and there's a small podium at the back where they could be announcing king and queen. 

But it's not prom, and this is not high school. This time Stiles has a job to do, a job where actual lives are on the line. He squares his shoulders, tilts his chin up like Lydia taught him, straightens his New Jersey sash, and steps into the room. Immediately, the temperature goes up by at least five degrees, because squeezing fifty-plus dudes into a small room is never a great idea, and he's assaulted by the pungent stench of almost-rotting roses, because someone has gone a little overboard with the flowers.

"Great," he mutters, reaching up to switch on his comm. Immediately, there's a loud wolf-whistle right in his ear, and he flinches wildly, arms windmilling and nearly smacking New Mexico in the face as he tries to saunter past.

New Mexico glares, his perfect teeth gritting, shapely eyebrows narrowing, and he steps away from Stiles like he's diseased.

"Well we all know who won't be winning Mr Congeniality," Stiles mutters. "Thanks Erica, by the way."

Erica's snicker reverberates in his earpiece and his cringes again.

"Think we could adjust the volume a bit? The whole room can hear you at this point."

"Only if you tilt your camera up a bit, I'm missing out on _so much_ right now," she says, but she's much quieter than before. "Ugh, some of these guys are _fine as hell_."

"I think you mean _all_ of them," Stiles murmurs, grudgingly adjusting his pin camera, eyes following Mr Florida as he strolls past, looking the epitome of beautiful and confident in his expensive suit.

Meanwhile, Stiles is pretty sure he can't lift his arms above waist height due to the epic sweat stains he can feel soaking through his shirt.

"Well, it is kinda their job to be hot," Erica reminds him. "Who's the only person in that room who can also claim to be one of the FBI's best profilers slash decoders?"

Stiles can't stop the corner of his mouth from ticking up. "I'm kind of enjoying this whole new 'supportive' schtick you've got going on, you know. I've never felt more empowered."

"Fuck off, dickhead."

"Aaaand it's gone. I miss it already."

"You know what I miss? The times when you didn't look so much like a crazy loser. You realise you're talking to yourself in a corner? Mr Ohio looks like he's about to call the dudes in white coats. Would you just go and mingle?"

"But I don't even know where to start," he whines. "What can I even talk to these guys about? I don't know anything about lifting weights or banging hot chicks. All the people I bang are average-looking!"

Erica snorts. "I can't believe you can challenge Harris with no fear but you're intimidated by fifty airheads. Seriously, Stiles, just—"

"Hey man!" says someone, finally, and Stiles turns to see a guy with smiling eyes and a Rhode Island sash approaching him. "You must be the new New Jersey! I'm Scott."

"Hey, yeah, I'm Sti— Miles, I'm Miles," he corrects quickly. He hears a groan over his earpiece, and he knows he's gonna get it from Erica later. His very first words on his most important undercover mission, and he nearly screwed everything up. "Hey, yeah, new, that's me."

"Awesome man, good to meet you! Come on, sit." He herds Stiles over to an empty table close to the podium and pulls out a chair for him.

"Thanks," Stiles says, dropping into the seat. The movement jostles his delicate, freshly-hairless ass, but it's a sensation he'll just have to endure. He's so fucking out of his depth, and he feels like he should welcome any opportunity to sit down and chill out with both open arms _and_ legs. "So, Rhode Island, huh? That's—" He wracks his brain, trying to come up _something_ , tries to remember what was in the info packet Derek supplied him with about his 'home state' and the surrounding areas, but all he can say is, "That's... near New Jersey." He gestures lamely to his own sash.

"Oh my god," Erica mutters.

Thankfully, Scott doesn't seem too perturbed by his lack of social skills. "I know, right?" He says cheerfully, settling down into his seat. "What if we've been in the same place before? What if we passed each other in the street and like, didn't even know that one day we'd end up here, together? That's so nuts!"

Stiles snorts. "Yeah, totally." Stiles eyes him, observes his easy confidence that somehow falls _just_ short of outright arrogance, and decides Scott is totally his in. He leans closer and says casually, "So, hey, how long have you been doing this anyway? I'm pretty new to it, but you seem to actually know what you're doing."

"Oh yeah, I've been doing this since I was like three! I was like, a _super_ cute kid, and my mom thought it would funny to like, enter me in some pretty infant competition or whatever? And then I won, and I never really stopped."

"Participating or winning?"

Scott grins. "Both."

"Started from the bottom now we're here," Stiles says wisely.

"Not that I'd ever forget anyone back home," Scott continues. "I used to volunteer at the animal shelter, and now I do charity work for them. I could never abandon all the animals, they're living creatures in need of love and care, just like us."

"Aww, what a perfect journey story," Erica coos, dripping sarcasm. "No wonder all the judges love him."

Stiles clears his throat. "That's super cool, dude. Gotta remember your roots, right?"

"What about you, Stiles?" Erica asks sweetly. "Do you remember all your roots?"

Stiles barely tamps down on the urge to swear at her, and reaches across the table for a bagel instead, shoving it directly into his mouth. He takes a huge bite, chewing obnoxiously and hoping it's loud enough that Erica can hear it, and that's when four absolutely gorgeous, exquisitely beautiful, preternaturally attractive guys appear next to Scott.

Perfect. Of course.

"Oh my god," Erica whimpers.

Stiles tries to ignore her and smiles weakly up them around his mouthful of carbs. He is just _killing it_ with the first impressions today.

Scott grins and literally jumps up to greet them.

"Yo, McCall, good to see you again," Hawaii says, exchanging some kind of bro-handshake with him. 

Texas sneers, glaring down at Stiles as he finally manages to force down the last of his bagel. "Look, McCall finally managed to find another testicle to complete his pair. Now he won't be lonely when he's kicked out in the first round."

Scott rolls his eyes. "Miles, this is Danny, and the douche is Jackson. New York is Boyd, and California is Isaac." 

The two tall dudes hovering behind Danny offer dudebro nods before settling at the table beside Scott. Which leaves Jackson sprawling in the seat next to Stiles, taking up way more room than necessary and yet still managing to make it clear that actually touching Stiles would be a fate worse than death. 

Awesome. 

"What happened to the previous New Jersey, anyway?" Danny asks from Jackson's other side, studiously straightening his cutlery. "I remember him, he was… intriguing."

Jackson scoffs. "Yeah, you thought his ass was totally—"

Danny elbows him, glaring, and Erica snickers. 

"Tell them he's been _porn again_ ," she suggests. "Oh, no, he's _opening himself up_ to new experiences!"

Stiles snorts in laughter, then schools his face into his most practiced, most effective innocent expression. "I dunno man, maybe he just realised who the better contestant was."

"You mean you? You're New Jersey's best chance?" Jackson scoffs. "I guess they really do prefer them cheap and greasy in the diner capital of the world." 

"Wow, okay, is that smack talk? From someone whose Talent is listed in the brochure as 'Lacrosse Stick Skills'?" Stiles raises his eyebrows challengingly, immensely enjoying the way Jackson's little face grows so comically outraged.

"That takes hours of practice!" Jackson bites out. "My hands have bled more times than your vagina!" 

"Yeah well my heart bleeds for your hands," Stiles snaps. 

Jackson jumps up to loom over Stiles, butter knife clenched in his fist, and while Stiles may never have managed to overpower a Hale, he's pretty sure he could take down Jackson— 

But he doesn't get the chance to even try, because suddenly Danny is pushing between them, Scott is yanking Stiles back, and Derek's voice is thundering over his earpiece. 

"Stiles!" Derek yells. It's drawn out in a way that, if Stiles' life were a comedy film, his echoing scream would be accompanied by ever-widening shots of the room, the city, the country, and the planet—maybe even the galaxy. 

And Stiles flinches. He has really fucked up now, because Derek _hates_ comms, probably because they force him to talk more. Stiles can just picture his angry little face now—eyebrows forced together so hard in the middle it looks like they'll need a crowbar to separate them, mouth pursed all tight and disapproving… 

"Stiles," Derek says calmly, the kind of fake calm that only barely disguises his ire, "shut the fuck up and stop antagonising the other contestants! I get it, he's volatile, we'll look into it, now stop screwing around and do your damn job! You're supposed to be making connections, not mortal fucking enemies." 

Before he can even really think about it, Stiles opens his mouth to reply. 

"If you dare answer back to me right now I'll tell everyone you were both the creator _and_ distributor of that picture of Harris. You know, the one that became the inter-office meme and made a mockery of a senior agent?"

Stiles cringes. Yes, he is very aware of that meme. Particularly because a) the horrifying spectacle of Harris' pasty body in that pink string two-piece adorned by the words _Federal Bikini Inspector_ will haunt him for the rest of his days and b) Erica was the actual perpetrator and sends him a copy of it at least once a day in emails labelled 'URGENT'. Still, people would definitely believe Derek if he said Stiles was the real offender. It was his software program Erica used, after all. 

He says nothing, and Derek grunts his approval. His comm goes quiet, and Stiles takes the opportunity to tune back into his immediate surroundings. No one seems to have noticed him acting weird except for New York—what's his name, Boyd—who's already looking at Stiles like he's crazy. 

Stiles waves feebly at him. 

Boyd is distinctly unimpressed. 

"Sigh," Erica says dreamily, back on comms again. 

Stiles sighs. 

"No, I was verbalising— Never mind. As you were."

And Stiles decides to just follow orders for once. 

—

Stiles hates having to follow orders. Sometimes it's because his orders are stupid, but most of the time it's because they're boring. Stiles does not do well with boring, especially when he has no outlet—no phone to play with, gum to snap, hoodie strings to chew on, whatever, he just needs _something_.

This time, it's the bagels.

No one else at the table touches them, probably because they're all concerned about stupid macho meathead shit like _nutrition_ , so Stiles is onto his fourth bagel by the time Allison and Gerard Argent, hosts of the pageant, make their way onto the stage.

"Might wanna slow down there, cowboy," Erica says, speaking over the applause of the contestants. "It's hard to hear anything over the sound of your chewing, and we might actually need to know what these two are saying."

Stiles rolls his eyes, but drops the bagel and knife and turns to face the stage, eying the hosts suspiciously.

The contestants are _still_ clapping, because they’re all ass-kissers, and Gerard waves his hands in a shushing motion. "Yes, thank you, thank you very much," he says, leaning over the podium to croak into the mic. He turns to Allison. "And how about my darling granddaughter, isn't she exquisite?" Gerard takes her hand and gestures to the crowd again, and the clapping builds _again_ as Allison smiles uncomfortably.

"Gross," Erica mutters.

Thankfully, Gerard doesn't seem to like the focus to be off him for too long, so he quickly draws the attention back to himself. "For the past twenty years, it's been my honour to serve as director of this pageant, and I know that this year is going to be better than ever. I hope you're all prepared to work hard and really do your nation proud! I know I am." He casts a smarmy smile out at his audience. Everyone at Stiles' table is watching him raptly, even Jackson, and a quick glance around him shows that the whole room is caught in Gerard's thrall. 

Gross two-point-oh.

"As for our schedule, after this magnificent brunch, there will be a group dance rehearsal and then you'll be able to settle into your rooms. And tomorrow we begin the preliminaries, hosted by our Allison herself!"

Gerard ushers Allison to the mic, and Stiles tunes out again but keeps watching. Empty words mean less to him than body language at this point. Allison honestly doesn’t ping his radar at all and seems totally fine—more than fine if he were to ask Scott, considering the way he's staring at her with shiny anime eyes—but Gerard is creepy and smug and sets off all of Stiles' alarms at once. He’s smiling wide, trying to seem friendly, but he’s trying _too_ hard. There’s no light in his eyes, and about a hundred different micro expressions cycle through his features while Allison offers up a rousing presentation of the idea that everyone's a winner, or something equally as trite. And then—then Allison mentions that this is Gerard's last year as host, and Gerard laughs it off, but gets a crazed look in his eye that Stiles is more used to seeing on serial killers.

Interesting. 

More information is required.

He doesn't even bother with asking his immediate neighbours, for two very different yet very obvious reasons, and instead leans over Scott and pokes Isaac in the arm with his fork.

"Hey," he hisses. "Did we know Gerard was retiring?"

Isaac eyes him warily. "He's not," he says lowly. "Boyd overheard him yelling at his assistant this morning, he's getting fired."

Stiles glances at Boyd, who gifts him with a fake grin.

"Reeeeeeally," he says pointedly, leaning forward to reach for his water glass. "Well that's something to be pissed about."

"It's not Gerard," Erica says, because she's always on his wavelength. "We already looked into it, he came up clean."

In front of him, Isaac shrugs. "Maybe. Twenty years is forever, maybe he's sick of being surrounded by half-naked dudes reminding him of his spent youth."

"Yeah, or _maybe_ —"

"Seriously, drop it Stiles, it's not him! Plus, we're like ninety-nine percent sure now that the Citizen is a woman, forensics found DNA on—"

"DNA?!" Stiles yells, mid-sip, and sprays his mouthful of water everywhere.

Oh. Shit.

Everybody in his immediate vicinity turns to stare at him, and Allison stops mid-sentence, glancing over with a raised eyebrow. 

"Oh my God," Erica groans. 

"Excuse me?" Allison asks politely, looking a combination of amused and perturbed.

Stiles gulps, awkwardly getting to his feet. "Uhhh… okay… Sorry, I'm just— uh, DN... Deee-ennn… ay… Dee-enn-ay. Dee-anny? Danny!" Stiles squints and gestures at Danny, and he wants to take his whole life back right now, but this is the path he's chosen, all of his terrible decisions have lead him to this, so he has no choice but to follow through. He presses his palms together and points them at Danny. "Danny? Danny. I mean, we were talking about winners, and I'm pretty sure Danny is gonna give us all a run for our money, right fellow pageant participants? I mean, come on, alo- _ha_ , am I right?"

"Oh god," Danny mutters, head dropping into his hands.

The rest of the room continues to stare. 

"Just to let you know," Erica says, after a beat, "Derek is right next to me and he saw all of that. His jaw is so tight I think he's broken some teeth."

"Thanks," Stiles mutters.

"Also, is now a good time to tell you we got a new note from the Citizen and that's how we found the DNA?"

"Should I continue now?" Allison asks.

"Yeah," Stiles tells both of them. "Do whatever you need."

—

The speeches end quickly after Stiles' outburst. He's pretty sure his weird interjection had something to do with it, but honestly he's not sorry at all. Every single person in the room should be thanking him, because everything those Argents had to say was boring as _shit_.

Naturally, he is not thanked. What actually happens is that the hot posse at his table scatters asap without a word, leaving he and Scott alone once more. Stiles isn't offended—their desperate need to be on the other side of the room gives him a much better opportunity to surveil them more extensively. So far, no one's done anything too suspicious, but looks can be deceiving.

Unless you're Scott, in which case looks can turn you into a drooling fool.

"She's just so pretty," he says for the third time in five minutes, staring at where Allison is standing and talking with Gerard and Jackson, aka the biggest kissass of them all.

Stiles shrugs. "She doesn't seem too evil," he says agreeably. He's moved on to watching Boyd, who seems to be eyeing the vending machine just outside the door with undue hostility.

Scott frowns, turning to look at him. "What?"

"I have a very perceptive eye for evil," Stiles says.

"What, like… auras and stuff?" His frown deepens. "What does mine look like? Does it match Allison's?" He looks down at himself, then back in Allison's direction, but she's not standing there anymore. Instead, she and Gerard are making their way directly over to where Stiles and Scott are sitting, and Scott is immediately descending into a panic. "Oh crap, I can't— I spilled juice on my shirt, I can't let her see me like—" Before Stiles can stop him, Scott is sliding out his seat and practically doing an army roll to escape.

Stiles sighs, and turns to face the Argents alone. "Hello, benevolent hosts."

"Hello Mr New Jersey," Allison says, sounding amused. "Your interruption was incredibly well-timed. I assume it was part of your facade? Although I'd've thought that _not_ drawing unnecessary attention to yourself would be the goal."

Gerard sniffs, looking Stiles over imperiously. "Yes. One would _think_ it would be."

Stiles, however, is distracted by one, tiny little detail. "You _know_?" he blurts out, staring at them.

"Of course they know Stilinski, they practically run that place. Did you really think you'd get past the first round of the competition on your own?" Erica snickers.

Stiles really wants to punch her right now. He clears his throat. "I apologise. It won't happen again."

"I would hope not," Gerard says. "If it was up to me you wouldn't even be here. But there's nothing I care about more than the safety of my boys, so you better be damn good at your job!" He gives Stiles one last withering look, then storms off.

"Did he just say 'my boys'?" Erica makes a retching noise. "That's the grossest thing I've ever heard. I think some unlikely animal friends somewhere just died."

Allison leans in and speaks quietly. "Do you really think someone here wants to hurt us?"

"That's what I'm here to find out. Don't worry though, we'll protect you," he assures her.

She looks dubious. "You'll find I can protect myself, but thanks for the offer. Also..." She reaches into one of the front pockets of her dress and hands Stiles a tiny, folded up tissue. "You have cream cheese on your chin."

She turns to leave, and Stiles' arm automatically comes up to wipe his chin with his wrist, the cheese smearing over his jaw until he catches it on the edge of his sleeve.

"Classy," Erica says.

Stiles scowls, about to answer back when Scott suddenly appears beside him.

"What did she give you?" he demands. Stiles briefly thinks about being mad that he never said anything about the cheese, but Scott is staring at the tissue, and Stiles knows he probably didn't even notice. He sighs, handing the tissue over. "Oh my god," Scott says, taking it reverently. "She touched this! It was in her pocket!" Slowly, he brings it up to press it against his cheek.

"Dude," Erica says, judging him.

"Dude," Stiles says, also judging him.

"Can I have this?" Scott says, completely unaware that he's being a huge weirdo.

Stiles is kind of jealous. He's always aware that he's being a huge weirdo. Being free to live with that level of obliviousness would do so much for his anxiety. "Sure buddy," he says, clapping Scott on the shoulder. "I'll just wipe myself off elsewhere else."

"Name of your sextape," says Erica immediately. Because she's an asshole. 

—

In retrospect Stiles can vaguely remember several mentions of learning a dance, both from Lydia and Derek. But somehow, it's still a surprise when brunch ends and Stiles and the contestants are all herded to a change room to swap into red, white and blue active wear (where Stiles turns off his camera and endures Erica pouting about it for the whole twenty minutes), then again into a mirror-walled dance studio and told to start warming up.

And Stiles' heart sinks. He has maybe managed to successfully ignore this particular competition requirement for as long as he can in the hopes that it'll go away, but alas it has not. _Why_ is there a dance, anyway? And why force people to indulge in such strenuous physical exercise directly _after_ a brunch? Everyone—well, Stiles—has just eaten, how can they—well, Stiles—now be expected to learn and remember a four minute long, fully choreographed dance? Strict choreo and Stiles do not mix. He can actually dance, he's not entirely tragic in that department, but his speciality is more... freestyle. Coordinating limbs has never been his strong suit, as anyone who's known him more than five minutes can confirm.

All he can really do at this point is to try his best to keep up and not fall over. 

Stiles falls over three times. The last time is the worst. 

Scott helps him up. Erica laughs. Jackson films his struggle. Boyd rolls his eyes and steps around his battered body. Isaac grabs him by the back of neck and hauls him out of the way so the beautiful, perspiration-dabbled hordes can keep practising. 

"This is hell," Stiles pants, glaring mutinously at his sweaty, red-faced reflection. 

"Wait till you have to perform it on national television," Erica says cheerfully. 

—

Everything hurts by the time Stiles finally makes it to his room, and not just from the dancing—his ear is _aching_ , like on _fire_ , after having his earpiece in for hours and he's taking it out as soon as possible. 

Erica's off duty now anyway, and Derek's waiting for him in his room, which Stiles honestly has mixed feelings about. On one hand, he's been itching to find out more about the DNA, because the truth is that any form of DNA discovery in this case should be impossible. The Citizen is always meticulous and has never once left DNA, and while bad guys do get cocky and slip up, this seems way too out of character.

On the other hand, after everything he's been through in the past few days he also wants to lay down and never get up again, and he's half hoping that Derek has decided to hold off on their overnight training session in favour of letting him get some sleep.

Those hopes are dashed when he walks into his room to find Derek sitting on his bed, back ramrod straight against the uncomfortable-looking wooden bedhead as he studiously types away at his laptop. His typing style is as endearing as ever, a two-fingered peck that's far quicker than it should be, but each clack of the keys makes Stiles want to bang his head against the wall.

"Ugh whyyyyyy," Stiles groans, swinging the door shut, _finally_ ripping out his earpiece and pocketing it, and staggering over to flop face-first on the bed. He turns his head away from Derek, and tries not to think about which parts of them are touching. It's just as well he's way too exhausted to _think_ about being attracted to anyone, let alone act on it. 

Even when that anyone is Derek. 

"Do you wanna see the newest Citizen letter or not?" Derek asks calmly, and Stiles somehow finds the strength within himself to scramble up the bed and wiggle in next to Derek. Derek grunts in protest, but shuffles over and hands Stiles a printout. 

"The DNA was—"

"On the envelope."

Stiles nods, scanning the letter greedily, brows furrowing further the more he reads. This is… huh. It reads a little differently to the other ones, the syntax and rhyming patterns aren't quite… 

He waves the paper at Derek. "Has anyone—"

"We haven't decoded it yet."

"Can I—"

"Your involvement with this letter ends here, you need to focus on the pageant. I shouldn't even have shown you." He snatches it out of Stiles' hands before he can react, folding it haphazardly and tucking it under the thigh furthest from Stiles. 

Stiles stares at it mournfully. "But I'm—"

"We have a whole team dedicated to this, Stiles. You're not our only expert."

"I could've—"

"Stiles. I know, okay? If you were assigned to this letter, you probably would've had it decoded within a few hours. But you haven't slept, you look like shit, and Lydia wants to see you for more training in less than half an hour. You don't need any more work. Let someone else take care of this."

Stiles' shoulders slump. He wonders if he has the guts to rest his head on Derek's shoulder, and then he's doing it anyway, sliding down and closing his eyes. 

Derek pauses briefly before he seems to force himself to relax, scooting down a little so Stiles' head can settle more comfortably. "I'll give you ten minutes," he says softly. 

Stiles grunts. 

Derek goes back to his typing, slower and more carefully now, and Stiles can feel himself drifting off to the rhythmic tapping, and Derek is so warm and he smells so good and—

There's a loud knock at the door, and it's so sudden and unexpected that Stiles jolts up and only doesn't fall off the bed because Derek grabs his arm. 

"Um, who is it?" he calls, voice strangled. He glances at Derek, but Derek just shakes his head and starts reaching for his gun in its holster. 

"It's Scott," yells Scott, way too loud for this time of night, considering there's supposed to be a curfew. "I brought you something!" 

"Uhhhhhhh…" Stiles starts towards the door. Derek grabs his arm again and tugs him back, shaking his head, lips pursed and eyes narrowed. "Okay, just a minute!" He wrenches out of Derek's grip, turning to him with wide eyes. 

Derek glares. 

Stiles shrugs. 

Scott knocks again. 

Derek grabs his laptop, hops off the bed and gestures violently to his ear, directing Stiles to re-insert his comm before stalking over to the bathroom. Stiles follows and shoves him the last of the way inside, just because he can, and closes the bathroom door again before Derek can retaliate. He takes a deep breath, digs in his pocket for his comm, shoves it in, and swings open the bedroom door. 

"Hey man!" Scott says brightly. He's holding a thermos, and he shakes it in Stiles' face. "Brought you some of my juice." He dodges past Stiles and slips into his room, looking around with wide eyes. "Woah, you got a single? That's awesome, I got Jackson as my roommate, did you know his skin care routine takes two hours? He uses like ten different products, it's ridiculous, he even has this shower gel that— Oh dude, speaking of showers, have you tried yours yet? You should, the water pressure is amazing, check it out!" Scott starts heading for the bathroom, and Stiles barely holds in an alarmed shriek, darting over to redirect Scott to his bed. 

"While that sounds really awesome, right now I'm actually super thirsty man, you should pour me a huge drink and tell me more about Jackson!" He pushes Scott down to settle on the mattress. 

And then he notices the Citizen letter. It's right there, out in the open, still laying innocently where Derek left it, barely a foot away from Scott. Stiles doesn't even think before he dives sideways to cover it with his body, barely missing kneeing Scott in the head. He hurriedly stuffs it in his pocket and scrambles up the bed to rest casually against the bed head. Scott, thankfully, doesn't seem to notice—he's too busy carefully pouring Stiles the grossest cup of liquid (if it could be called that, considering the green clumps that topple into the thermos lid) he's ever seen. 

"This is the best post-long day pick me up! It's got kale, spinach and parsley in it!"

Stiles forces a smile. He steels himself, takes the tiniest sip, forces himself to swallow, and gives Scott a thumbs up while trying to conceal his grimace. It must be convincing enough because Scott lights right up, and from then on it seems like Stiles has passed some sort of test because what comes next is the easiest 'interrogation' Stiles has ever conducted. Scott volunteers all the information he could possibly need, and Stiles learns practically everything about him. At one point Scott's voice hushes, and he seems ashamed about something, and Stiles thinks he might be onto something nefarious—

And then Scott admits that when he was a teenager and volunteering at the animal shelter he once set a dog's leg when he wasn't supposed to, just so he could impress a girl. 

Stiles can't hold in his yawn.

Scott notices, glances at his phone, and scrambles up. "Oh dude it's been ages! I gotta go sleep!"

"It was awesome talking to you," Stiles offers, and Scott grins, reeling him in for a quick bro hug.

"See you later?" He grabs his thermos, and Stiles shows him to the door.

"For sure, man." They fist bump, Stiles salutes, and finally, _finally_ Scott heads off to his own room.

Stiles watches him go, waiting until he's cleared the corner before ducking back inside, slamming and locking the door and heading towards the bathroom. He peeks inside. 

Derek is huddled in the bath, headphones in, dull light from laptop screen illuminating his pouty pissed off face. He rips out an earbud. "He could still be a criminal mastermind," Derek insists.

"He made me spinach juice," Stiles says dubiously.

"I heard."

"Everything in it was vegan, organic and fair trade."

Derek raises his eyebrows. "So because he cares about flora and fauna he can't be a serial killer?"

"Dude, no, he's not the killer because my gut says he's not. If you ask me, Jackson is still way more likely."

He sighs, snapping his laptop shut and gently placing it on the floor beside the bath. "How many times do we need to go through this, Stiles? Just because someone annoys you, that doesn't mean they're guilty."

"Oh but Derek. All you have to do is look at my arrest record to discover that in actual fact, it really does." Stiles smiles smugly at him. 

Derek scowls. Unfortunately for him (or for Stiles? Both of them, probably), Stiles _lives_ for making Derek feel things, and where a smarter person might back off, he always opts for forging bravely ahead.

Alas, before he really gets the chance to do so, Derek is rising up from the bath, hips sinuously rolling towards Stiles, and he accidentally bites his own tongue instead. "Come on," Derek says gruffly. "We need to see Lydia." He bends over to pick up the laptop, and Stiles flees before he does anything _really_ stupid.

—


End file.
